The Words Left Unspoken
by Watermelonsmellinfellon
Summary: Permission given by magneatooo on Tumblr. Soulmate AU where your soulmate's first words to you are found on some part of the body. Except person A' has no words and goes through life thinking they don't have a soulmate, when person B' comes along, excitedly showing A' their words and it takes A' a minute to realize that B' is mute. A/N: JOHNLOCK. Sherlock A', John B'.


**A/N: Hello, people!**

 **I don't own Sherlock.**

 **I have no beta.**

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* * *

Sherlock Holmes had always been different. He knew this easily.

But what made him stand out from others, wasn't just his intelligence or his looks. Not even his attitude.

Everyone in history had been born with a mark. Like a tattoo. These marks always rested on the inner left wrist.

The mark was a claim. A soulmate claim. The very first words your soulmate said to you were imprinted on your wrist. Everyone knew this. It was among the first things taught in primary. Something Sherlock couldn't delete because it was everywhere!

Sherlock Holmes, did not have a mark. Anywhere. Which meant that he didn't have a soulmate.

The children in school made fun of him, soon prompting him to wear leather gloves.

University was always filled with invasive, childish people trying to get information they weren't meant to be privy to.

Everywhere he turned, people met their soulmates.

Even Mycroft met someone! _Mycroft_! The corpulent, cake loving, British Government found his significant other in a Detective Inspector who worked for Scotland Yard. Someone who Sherlock frequently worked with.

Sherlock was not jealous. He refused to admit anything because he was positive that he _wasn't_ jealous. He didn't need a soulmate. He didn't need someone always there to bother him.

He was fine on his own.

He was fine being alone.

But Mycroft knew how he really felt. He tried to keep Sherlock occupied in a positive manner, taking away Sherlock's needles and drugs and forcing him to do cases lest he be knighted by the queen.

Good old Betsy, always sitting by and waiting for the day Sherlock was willing to accept her offer.

He scoffed as he arranged the slide in his(the lab's) microscope.

Sentiment. Not his area.

His ears perked up, hearing footsteps in the hallway.

Mike Stamford entered the room, holding the door for a short, blonde haired man with an army cut. Psychosomatic limp, injured within the last year. Didn't ask for a chair, further proving it was just in his head. Familiarity with a scalpel judging by proper hold on the nearby tool. Doctor. Army doctor.

Invalided home recently do to whatever was wrong. Small scar on throat. Diagonal slash. Three inches long. Lucky to be alive at all.

Sherlock's gaze trailed to Mike, who was rifling through a drawer, pulling out papers.

"Mike, do you know what happened to the Lindo File?" he asked, having not found it in the lab.

"'Lindo'?" the other man repeated. "The cause of death was ruled as asphyxiation and it was closed. The file is locked away now."

'Asphyxiation'?! Was everyone in the world besides himself and maybe Mycroft, an idiot?!

Fools.

"I know, I know, you think the world is full of idiots," Mike smiled.

"It is," Sherlock replied candidly.

"Yes, and you are _not_ a psychopath."

"I'm not! Can you pass me that foot?"

Mike grimaced and gingerly lifted the bag off the other counter. He placed it down in front of Sherlock and proceeded to wipe his hand unnecessarily on his coat.

Sherlock's mobile dinged, signalling a text alert.

"Could you read that for me?" he asked, gesturing to the phone with his eyes as he fixed the magnification on the microscope.

"From someone named Anderson?"

"Delete it. He's an idiot of the worst kind and still doesn't know the definition of a psychopath."

Sherlock caught the blond man's gaze. Said man was giving him a sort of searching look. Not disgusted, more intrigued than anything else.

He suddenly felt the need to clarify his mental state to this unknown army doctor with a pathetic limp. This attractive man who didn't know him and surely wouldn't care.

"I'm _not_ a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath."

* * *

John Watson's soul mark was different than what most would get.

His sister, Harry had poked fun over the years. Her's had said, 'Can I get a pint?'. Clara was on her way home from work when she met Harry who was a bartender in a small pub. Romance right away.

John's wrist was covered in long words. It took several years to understand the meaning of the words, but putting them together, had him lost.

His soulmate was going to say ' _I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath_ '. What sort of greeting was _that_?

No one he knew in primary, secondary, medical school, or even the army had spoken like that. Such proper speech wasn't so frequently heard of these days.

And John wondered if he'd ever actually meet his soulmate.

And then… he was injured. Shot in the shoulder and attacked.

He was lucky to be alive. Shoulder hit was too close to the heart and the enemy managed to slash his throat before John shot him in return.

Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was no longer fit for army duty. He couldn't even talk anymore.

It was… a change that he had not been ready for.

He returned to London, to live in a bedsit for several months, living off his army pension.

He had a routine. He followed it precisely every day. In six months, he had yet to deviate.

But he met an old friend from medical school. And it was disheartening to realize that they couldn't properly speak to each other. John was learning BSL and had to use his phone - a gift from Harry - to get his message across to others who didn't know how to sign.

But Mike Stamford was a good sport about it.

And Mike solved a problem John was having. He needed to get out of the bedsit and needed a flat, but London was too expensive on his own, so a flatmate was in order.

And Mike knew someone in need of a flatmate.

If John didn't know better, he'd say it was fate.

And so they went to Bart's, bringing back memories of the old days.

The man who spoke to Mike was a looker, which shocked John because he had never really noticed men's looks before. But indeed, tall and pale, with dark curls, and light blue/green eyes. Attractive.

The two spoke quickly and John couldn't help but wonder what the man was doing with a severed foot.

And then… Just then. The man turned to John after Mike made a comment and said the very words John hadn't expected to ever really hear.

"I'm _not_ a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath."

John knew his mouth dropped. He also didn't care in the least.

He glanced down at his wrist, the fanciful script glowing the same shade as the man's eyes.

John looked back up to see both Mike and the man staring openly at him.

John held up his wrist so the man could see.

" _What_?"

Tall, dark, and handsome was holding John's wrist in the next second, shocking the ex-soldier who hadn't seen him move.

"This is impossible," the man murmured, running his fingertip over the words.

John's head tilted in confusion.

"I don't have a mark," the man continued to say, frowning at the words on John's wrist.

And John had an epiphany!

He withdrew his hand and smiled at the stranger, before signing, **Hi, my name is John Watson. Nice to meet you.**

The man's jaw dropped a bit, before his own - graceful, fluid, and absolutely delicate looking - hands rose in return. **I am Sherlock Holmes,** he signed back.

"You're mute, that is why I never had a soul mark," Sherlock breathed in what seemed to be awe.

John smiled brightly. His soulmate was the attractive genius. And seriously, who wouldn't be able to tell that Sherlock was smart?

"I just… _how_ did the soul mark know that you would be mute when we finally got to meet?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John frowned and shrugged. How indeed?

"This could use further scientific study. I play the violin at random hours of the night and might not talk for days on end, would that bother you?"

John was already signing, **No,** before he could think.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock grinned, looking much younger and more alive than a few minutes ago.

Mike simply stood by, grinning widely at them.

"I'm going to pop off for a cuppa. I'll see you gents later."

John and Sherlock were too engrossed in their discussion to notice him leaving. But that was okay, because two people who had doubted their futures for years, had been brought together finally.

And as the words flowed from their hands, but continued to smile in contentment.

This, was definitely worth waiting for.

* * *

 **A/N: Done! Okay, sign language isn't like a spoken language it is very different. Please remember this. You have to spell names out fully. I know ASL. BSL may be different though.**

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